Western Skies
by GibbsGirlAbby
Summary: This is an AU set in Montana in 1890.  Saving a stranger's life changes Gibbs' life forever.
1. Chapter 1

**Western Skies, Part 1**

_**Western Montana, 1890**_

In the end, it was the horse that saved his life.

Certainly the man on the back of the horse was in no shape to assist in directing the animal. It was all he could do to tie himself to the saddle before the blackness had claimed him. Occasional lapses of consciousness told the man he was still moving, the horse taking the man on some kind of private trek of its own so he allowed the darkness to swallow him again. It was better than dealing with the pain.

Meanwhile, the horse, with that inborn sense of self preservation so common in animals, headed unerringly toward the only shelter around, the smell of hay and oats and water drawing him along. At the clearing, the big animal shook a bit, straining at the weight on its back before heading into a sloppy trot. With a soft whinny, the horse plunged its head into the water trough, drinking deep of the clear, cool liquid.

A sound caused the horse's ears to twitch and the gelding's head lifted from the trough. Big brown eyes locked with blue across the path toward the barn. The horse broke first, shaking the excess water from its head and travelling wearily across the ground toward the man and the barn, knowing instinctively the man meant safety and the barn meant food. It shied a bit as a big hand was lifted to its nose, but shuddered in pleasure at the soft stroking. "Shh…" the voice said, soft and low. "Shh, fella, it's okay."

Gibbs looked at the man tied to the horse and wondered what the hell was going on. He moved around the horse's head to the unconscious man, noting his breathing was shallow and his skin pale, as well as the blood on both his leg and shoulder. His gaze flicked down to the man's hands, spying the length of rawhide wrapped around both the saddle horn and the man's wrists. With a quick flip of his knife, he cut the binds loose and gently pulled the body off the horse.

He nearly stumbled as the heavy weight of the man fell on him. Gibbs steadied himself and pulled the man closer, hitching his good arm around his neck and lifting him by the back of his pants. The horse, he noted, was already headed into the barn. Gibbs would take care of the animal as soon as he could, but right now he had to get the injuries tended to. With not a little effort, he maneuvered the man up to the house, juggling a bit to open the latch and shove him inside. The light from the doorway illuminated the simple room enough for Gibbs to move through to the bedroom. He pushed the door open and lowered the man onto the bed.

Gibbs straightened up and gazed down at the unconscious man. He took note again of the blood stains on his arm and leg, the tearing in the cloth indicating bullet holes. His hands reached out to unbutton the shirt, pulling gently where the blood had dried and crusted. His hands lowered toward the gunbelt strapped around a trim waist. The leather was rich, hand tooled and obviously expensive—but the holster was empty. Gibbs quickly unbuckled the belt and the pants, pulling both down the man's legs, again taking care at the wound site. Two thumps on the wood floor signaled the removal of the dusty boots and soon the man was naked.

Gibbs took a moment to survey the man. His hair was a light brown, a bit long so it brushed his ears. His face was lean and from what he could tell, handsome; chest and shoulders wide, the former covered with a dusting of hair, the latter…Gibbs' gut twisted as he lifted the man a bit on his uninjured side, seeing the scars that crossed the wide back and tanned shoulders. He gently lowered the man again, eyes skimming along the rest—narrow hips and strong legs. Remembering the fine quality of the gun belt, Gibbs picked up the man's right hand, ghosting a touch over the fingers, finding the calluses he knew would be there.

The man was a gunfighter.

"Who got the better of you, kid," Gibbs murmured, dropping the hand and running a light hand along the wound on the man's leg. The red puckered skin was hot and a bit swollen, the entry wound of the bullet an angry hole in the otherwise strong leg. The wound on the stranger's arm was also red, weeping blood from both the entry in front and exit in back. Gibbs grunted at that, glad that there was only one bullet to remove but also knowing the through and through shots brought their own brand of danger.

The man groaned in pain, spurring Gibbs back to action. He left the bedroom to the kitchen, pushing hard on the pump to start the water before snagging a jug, filling it half way. He grabbed a few clean towels, then made a stop into the parlor his half-empty bottle of whisky. He opened the breakfront and pulled out the basket that was inside. His mind flashed for second, seeing small, delicate hands holding the basket, quick fingers sewing and knitting and darning…he shook the memory away, heading back into the bedroom. He filled a basin on the table near the bed with the water, sliding up a chair and dipping a towel into the cool water. He slowly worked the soft fabric against the blood on the man's arm, dipping and wringing until the water was pink. He turned again to wet the cloth when his wrist was grabbed, sloshing the water a bit.

He turned to find the man's eyes open and wary. "Who are you?" The voice was raspy and hoarse, the lips cracking.

He seemed weak but the hold on Gibbs' wrist was strong. "Jethro Gibbs," he said simply.

"How…" He swallowed dryly. "How did I get here?"

"Your horse brought you."

This seemed to make sense to the man, who nodded and closed his eyes again, settling back down onto the pillow. Gibbs started, needing at least one thing before the pain conquered again. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Smith."

Gibbs felt his anger rise. He reached out a hand and tapped the injured man lightly on the top of the head, causing his eyes to pop open again, this time in surprise. "I'm about to save your life, kid, and don't appreciate being lied to."

Something flittered in the man's green eyes as they locked with Gibbs' narrowed blue ones. "Tony."

Gibbs nodded, pleased with the honest answer. "You might want to pass out again, Tony," he said. "The shot in your arm went clear through, but you've still got a bullet in your leg that needs to come out, and frankly, it's gonna hurt like hell."

"Can't…" came the reply. "Keep moving…"

"No one's gonna get to you here, Tony," Gibbs said, reassuringly. "My place is hard to locate…I can't believe you found me."

"Didn't…horse."

"That's right." He smiled at the small joke. All this time, Gibbs had continued to clean off the wounds. "Smart horse you've got there. But you're still gonna want to be asleep."

"Just…do what you have to, Gibbs," Tony ordered between gritted teeth. "Gotta get away…can't…stay long."

Gibbs could see he was fighting against the pain and struggling to stay awake, more scared of what—_or who_—was after him than of the upcoming removal of the bullet from his thigh. "You're not going anywhere for quite a bit."

Tony shook his head, pointing to the bottle on the table.

Gibbs raised a brow, reaching for the whisky. He tipped the bottle towards the bullet hole in Tony's thigh, wincing as the scream erupted from the younger man, his entire body jerking at the fiery heat of the whiskey in his wound. He dropped the bottle on the table, kneeling next to the bed and laying his arms over Tony's chest and legs to keep him from twisting completely off the bed. The screaming and jerking eventually stopped and Gibbs peered up at Tony's face, noting the slack jaw and almost closed eyes. "Sorry about that, kid," he said with a wry smile as Tony's eyes rolled back and he passed out.

xxx

Shutting the door quietly behind him, Gibbs leaned wearily against the wood. He lifted his hands, noting the fine tremor as well as the blood still covering them. Pushing himself away from the room, he stepped into the kitchen, jerking the pump hard until the cool water ran fast, cleaning his hands before bending and tucking his head under the flow. The water felt wonderful, rushing over his skin and rinsing away some of the tension of the last few hours. Lifting up, he shook off the excess water, grabbing a towel and wiping it across his face before sinking into a chair.

Tony was alive, and for now, seemed free of fever. The bullet in his thigh had been lodged deep, but thankfully Tony had stayed unconscious while Gibbs dug around, finally extracting the ball of lead with a fresh flow of blood. For a moment Gibbs was worried the bullet had hit a vein, but the blood flow stopped to a trickle. Gibbs had once again poured the whisky in the wound before treading a needle with the strongest thread in the sewing basket. The edges of the bullet hole were clean, and Gibbs worked quickly to close the wound. Afterwards he bound the entire leg with strips from a clean sheet. He also sewed the two wounds on Tony's arm, binding them as well. Afterwards, he'd fetched clean water and washed Tony as best he could before changing the linen on the bed. He'd left Tony asleep under the fresh sheets.

Gibbs finally noticed the dimming light and heaved himself out of the chair, walking outside and toward the barn. Smiling, he saw Tony's horse had made himself comfortable in the stall with Brownie, his old mare. Brownie was leaning against the gelding's flank, her head resting on the other horse's neck. Brownie was a social horse and since Gibbs had sold off the last of her colts, she'd been lonely. "Found a friend, did you girl?" he asked the horse, patting her round rump and squeezing between them. He received a snuffle in response and shoved against the gelding, hands already on the saddle. He pulled the equipment off the horse, gave it a quick brush down, then refilled the oat trough and water trough. Brownie was still, waiting for Gibbs to leave the stall before moving right back next to the gelding, head resting once again on his neck.

Returning to the kitchen, Gibbs lit the stove and reheated the morning's left over coffee, grabbing a steaming mug along with a hunk of cheese and bread from the larder before heading back once more into the bedroom. He sank into the chair next to the bed, sipping slowly and observing the man sleeping in his bed.

_The man sleeping in his bed._

Now there's a phrase Gibbs never thought he'd hear again.


	2. Chapter 2

Tony came awake suddenly, but with his hard worn sense of self preservation his eyes remained closed and his breathing even, giving him time to remember, recoup, and if need be, rebel.

He remembered how he got here, the events that led to his being shot by someone he almost trusted. He remembered strapping his hand to the horse in the hope the animal would at least try to save itself, thereby saving him. It seems to have worked.

His second task was to take a self inventory, to catalogue his various injuries and judge how incapacitated he was. A small shift of his shoulder brought a sharp pain to his left arm, but nothing he couldn't live with. In fact, he knows he's had worse and managed to fight. Moving his left leg was quite another story. He bit the inside of his lip as the excruciating pain shot from the wound in his thigh.

This one might be a problem, he thought, fighting to keep his breath even and light. There was no way he'd be able to stand on this leg for quite a while. He hated being trapped with no escape.

As the pain receded he became aware of a sound in the room, identifying it as breathing. The breathing was rhythmic and even, indicating whoever was making the sound was asleep. He took this chance to open his eyes a fraction to see the man slumped in the chair next to the bed.

Tony started with the face. Tanned and lined. Older than himself, but not too weathered or beaten by time. The hair was silver and mussed, the beard coming in on his cheeks and chin white. He noted the clothes were splattered with stains, and he realized it was his blood on the shirt. His eyes dropped to the hands, one holding a dangling mug, the other resting palm up on a thigh. Strong hands—calloused, rough. What was his name again? Tony searched his foggy memory and came up with a name. Jethro.

A rancher, the thought, happy with the knowledge. He knew men like this were generally strong, but he'd never met one he couldn't beat. This one would be no different. He would bide his time, regain use of his leg, then leave—with his horse, his gun, and anything he could get from Jethro. It wasn't the best way to say thank you, but to him, it was the only way to survive.

He watched the small change of Jethro's posture, realizing the other man was about to wake. Not wanting to deal with things just yet, he closed his eyes and evened out his breathing, ears alert and straining to track the man by sound. It wasn't easy. He'd never known a man to moved so silently. A creak of the chair as it moved as Jethro rose and a muffled thump as the mug was placed on the table, and that was it. There were no sounds from the man himself. Suddenly a hand was placed on his head causing his eyes to pop open at the touch.

Tony was caught by Jethro's eyes. They were peering straight into his own, making him feel open and exposed, as if Jethro was seeing everything he was with one look. His past and his present, his plans and schemes, the men he'd killed and will kill. The eyes told him Jethro saw who he was inside and more shockingly, understood him.

The moment stretched and Tony was surprised when he saw a change in Jethro's eyes, a sharpening of the blue orbs that coincided with Jethro's thumb moving softly along his brow. The stroking sent a shiver of fire running through Tony's body, from Jethro's thumb down to Tony's…no. It was impossible. He mentally shook it off, burying the feeling and with a bit of effort slipped the mask back on.

Jethro must have noticed something in his face because the other man smiled slightly and removed his hand, sitting back down in the chair "That's a neat trick, Tony," the man said. "How do you feel?"

"Not too bad," he said, his voice rusty.

"Hmm." The rancher gave him a long look. "You remember anything that happened?"

Tony nodded. "I remember you from last night. Jethro Gibbs." He gave a tight smile. "You poured whiskey on my leg."

"Easiest way to knock you out," Jethro said unapologetically. "Took out the bullet in your leg, patched up your arm."

He leaned forward and placed a hand on him, though this time near the bandage on Tony's injured arm as it lay outside the sheet. Tony fought back a second shiver Jethro's touch caused.

"No fever, which is good. Must have done alright." Jethro pulled the sheet back, exposing Tony's hip and wounded leg. Again a touch, this one light on the bandaged area.

This time there was no shiver for Tony to hide. Instead, Tony tried, but couldn't control the flinch of pain he felt at the probing. He mentally cursed himself at exposing the weakness.

"Sorry," Jethro murmured, flipping the sheet back. "But this wound's not hot, which is good. Also, there's no bad seepage, which again is good."

"You a doctor?" The touch, the bandages and the care seemed almost professional. Maybe he wasn't just a rancher.

Jethro shook his head, the small smile returning to his face. "No, just worked with one for a few years and picked things up." He sat back in the chair again. "So, you gonna tell me what happened?"

"No."

Jethro raised a brow, eyes again locked with Tony's. The silent battle went on for some time, until Tony finally turned away, gaze moving around the room. The room was sparse, a wardrobe in the corner, white curtains open over the window. He spied his hat and gun belt on a table, a flare of anger rising at the sight of the empty holster. "Where's my gun?" he demanded, leaning up on his good arm. He was never unarmed, ever. He pulled his legs up a bit, trying to swing his injured one over the side of the bed. He had to find his gun…

Jethro was up and rounding the bed, pushing Tony back to the mattress. "Lay back down," he demanded, a hand on Tony's shoulder. "I didn't go to all the trouble of sewing you up just have you pull all the stitches out."

Tony fought against the hand, reaching up and grasping Jethro's wrist and tossing it away. "Where's my gun, Gibbs?" he demanded again as a fissure of fear welled up inside, overtaking his anger and causing just a hint of panic.

"Didn't have it when you came in," Jethro explained.

"I don't believe you."

Jethro gave a rough laugh. "I'm the last person to take a gun from someone, but believe what you want," he said. He walked away from the bed to the wardrobe, opening it and reaching inside. He turned back to Tony with a Colt revolver in his hand.

Tony tensed at the sight of the gun, but Jethro just scooped up Tony's gun belt and tossed both onto his lap.

"Here, this should make you feel better," he said before walking to the door. "I'm making something to eat, and I'll be back with some food for you. I'd appreciate it if you didn't shoot me when I return." With that, he left the room, closing the door behind him with a loud click.

Tony kept an eye on the door as he lifted the Colt, removing bullets from his gun belt and loading the revolver, snapping the cylinder shut before Jethro could come back and change his mind. He weighed the gun in his hand, already feeling calmer knowing he was armed and not vulnerable anymore. He hooked his gun belt on the bed post next to pillow and turned to tuck the gun in the holster, knowing it would be close enough to reach if need be. He paused in his actions, noting some script on the gun handle and turned it into the sunlight to read the worn words.

_Sgt. L. J. Gibbs. USS Ticonderoga._

xxxx

Jethro focused on the food, lighting the stove and pulling bacon from the larder, grabbing the last of yesterday's eggs as well. He set the fry pan on the stove, turning to the sink to pump in water, washing out the old coffee in the pot and scooping fresh grounds inside. He sliced the bacon and placed it in the pan before breaking the eggs in a bowl, whisking them quickly with a fork. Throwing the eggs in with the bacon, he pulled out two plates and two cups.

He paused as the food cooked, annoyance at the young man in the other room dissipating a bit as he remembered the look of fear on his face, the almost panic Tony had shown at the idea of losing his gun. He knew that fear, which was why he'd dug out his old Colt. He smiled in remembrance at the time he'd been without his own gun, shaking his head at how much like the past it was.

_He woke up with a searing pain in his head and the realization he was no longer on the ship. Memories flooded back to the battle, then the landing, then…nothing. He'd been hit before the battled had ended so he wasn't even sure who won. He opened his eyes and saw a ceiling, slowly becoming aware he was not alone, that there were other men in the room. He lifted himself off the bed a bit, grimacing in pain in his head and observed the room. A dozen cots were here, each one occupied by a wounded man._

"_Your comrades brought you," a voice said, the words sounding strange. _

_Jethro looked toward the voice and spied a small man, spectacles on his face and blood on his apron. _

"_You were wondering who you got here, yes?" the little man said, coming to stand next to his cot. "After the landing, after they found you, wounded, they brought you to me. I patched you up and put you to bed."_

"_And where is here?" he asked cautiously. He noted he was still wearing his uniform shirt but not his pants. He also couldn't tell which side this hospital belonged too, as the doctor wasn't in uniform. His eyes skidded around the room in an effort to locate his effects. "And who are you?"_

"_Here is the infirmary at Fort Fisher, my dear boy. And I am Doctor Donald Mallard." He sat on the edge of Jethro's cot, removing his glasses, frowning until he found a clean patch of apron to clean them off with. He replaced the glasses, then leaned in towards Jethro, extending a hand._

_It was caught in strong grasp, halting any progress towards Jethro's body. "Where's my gun?" he asked. _

"_Under your cot."_

"_Get it," he ordered, holding onto the wrist of the doctor while he leaned down to retrieve his holster and revolver. Jethro pulled the gun out and aimed it at the other man. "North or South?" he asked, cocking the Colt. _

_Mallard regarded him calmly. "North. I imagine that head wound is clouding your thought processes. If you were thinking clearly, you'd have realized I was friend and not foe when I gave you your gun." _

_Chagrined, Jethro lowered the revolver and released the doctor's arm. "Sorry about that. But you talk a bit funny and I wasn't sure."_

"_Oh, you were puzzled by my accent, were you?" the doctor said. "Well actually, I'm British, and by British, I really mean Scottish. I am currently a doctor with the Union army. It's quite an interesting story, how I came to be here. I was touring America with my mother when General Beauregard fired those first shots at Fort Sumter and the hostilities broke out. I sent her home immediately, but decided to stay and see if I could help. I had been in the Crimean conflict and knew quite a bit about battle injuries so I walked right into the headquarters of the Army of the Potomac and offered my services. For a while, I was assigned as General McClellan's personal physician, but that didn't seem to be helping much in the field."_

"_Doctor!" Jethro had a feeling if he didn't stop the doctor's words, they'd never stop at all. _

"_Yes?" _

_The eyes behind the spectacles were mild, but Jethro could see the intelligence and even a spark of humor. He doubted Doctor Mallard missed much and knew a lot. He'd watch his step with the doctor, for sure. "When can I get out of here and back to my ship?"_

"_Oh, not for a few days." The doctor chuckled at the growl from the cot. "You might as well get comfortable, marine. Now, I am reminded of a time when I was with on one of Her Majesty's war ships and helping induct new recruits to the Royal Marines..."_

He was brought out of his memories by the sound a horse approaching the house. Jethro pulled the fry pan off the heat and headed out of the kitchen to the front of the house. Peering through the screen door, he sighed at the sight of the sheriff dismounting and striding to the steps. Jethro hurried through the screen and stood at the top of the steps, halting the other man's progress.

"Sheriff Fornell," Jethro said in greeting.

"Gibbs," the other man said, taking off his hat and wiping down his balding head with a bandana. "Haven't seen you in town for a few months."

Jethro shrugged. "Got everything I need for a while," he said.

"I see," Fornell said, trying to peer beyond Jethro into the house. "You got company?" he asked.

Jethro cocked his head. "Why do you ask?"

"Wondering why you won't let me inside," he commented. "You're usually not so inhospitable."

"Got things to do, Tobias," Jethro said simply. "Can't sit around gossiping all day."

"Hmm," the sheriff said. Fornell wiped the inside of his hat before putting the bandana back into his pocket. "Seems there was a bank robbery over in Bozeman a few days ago. Rough gang came in, shot up the place, stole the cash." He paused for a moment. "Manager said there were three of them."

Jethro remained silent and he continued. "Miller, the Bozeman sheriff, tracked them for a few miles, but just missed them at their camp. Funny thing about their camp, though. Looked like the gang met up with someone."

"Another gang member?"

"Not sure, but if so, there was a falling out. Sheriff found a body. Bank manager confirmed he was one of the robbers." Fornell squinted at the sun. "Miller said they split up after that, trails leading in three different directions.

"You think one might still be headed this way?"

"You live the farthest out of town, and the closest to Bozeman," Fornell said. "Just wanted to give you a warning of possible trouble."

"I'll be on the lookout," Jethro said. "Thank you."

Fornell replaced his hat on his head. "You do that," he said before striding over to his horse and mounting up. He looked at the screen door again, his gaze thoughtful before spurring his horse into a walk and giving a nod of his head. "Take care, Gibbs."

Jethro watched as Fornell rode away, rounding the bend before speaking. "You shouldn't be out of bed, Tony," he said calmly, turning to the door. He entered the house to find the younger man propped against the wall, leaning heavily on his good leg with Jethro's Colt pointed at the door, his aim steady. The bandage on his leg was stained red, and there was a trickle of blood running down Tony's leg. "_Now _you want to tell me what happened?"

The hand holding the revolver lowered. "No," Tony said again, just before sliding down the wall in a faint.


End file.
